


Dying Sun

by yellowturtle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, First Kiss, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowturtle/pseuds/yellowturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>""I didn't do anything." He sat heavily onto the bed, sinking into the mattress like a stone.</p><p>"Bullshit!" Sam yelled."Why am I not dead, Dean? What kind of deal did you make? Was it another crossroads demon?"</p><p>Dean slowly buried his head in his palms. When his face re-emerged, he briefly clasped his hands as if in prayer. "No, not a demon." He said it so low Sam could barely hear. “Death. The Horseman.”</p><p>"Sammy," he whispered. "Sammy, it was Cas.”</p><p>Without warning, Dean started to cry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [messier51](https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier51/gifts).



> Set in season 10. Very very loosely follows "Living Sun".

"What the hell did you do?" Sam snarled from the hospital bed when his brother finally edged into the room. The drugs coursing through his veins didn’t dull him enough to appease his righteous anger.

Dean looked bitter, exhausted, and guilty, Sam thought, he looked  _guilty_.

"I didn’t do anything." He sat heavily onto the bed, sinking into the mattress like a stone.

"Bullshit!" Sam yelled. "Why am I not dead, Dean? What kind of deal did you make? Was it another crossroads demon?"

Sam knew with rising panic that he couldn’t do it. The hellhounds, the dark, the loneliness, the desperate thrashing for any reason to stay alive, even if it was only the cold allure of revenge. Not again.

Dean slowly buried his head in his palms. When his face re-emerged, he briefly clasped his hands as if in prayer."No, not a demon." He said it so low Sam could barely hear. “Death. The Horseman.”

For a confused moment Sam realized his brother wasn’t talking to him. Dean was parroting something he had trouble believing himself, trying to swallow the news, letting it ring in the air as if it would make it seem more real.

"Sammy," he whispered. "Sammy, it was  _Cas_.”

Without warning, Dean started to cry.

*****

Sam stared at the ground. “You shouldn’t’ve done it,” He kept his tone gentle. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Maybe it wasn’t his place to comment even though his life had just been traded off  _again_. Yet he knew deep in his bones that Cas didn’t save him for him. Partly, yes, maybe even mostly, but not really. Not truly.

Castiel closed his eyes and shook his head in an almost imperceptible way. The gesture suddenly seemed so fundamentally human on him. And Sam couldn’t help focusing on that, an insignificant detail in a situation too immense to digest, and it suddenly seemed so sad to him that Cas would leave right when the angel in his memory had finally been seamlessly replaced by the man.

"I left your soul in the cage and broke the wall inside your mind. This is the least I can do to make up for the suffering I caused," Castiel explained evenly.

"No, no, stop. You don’t owe me a thing. You’re pretty much the only family we have left, man." Cas made so many mistakes with such good intentions. That alone easily ranked him as an honorary Winchester, if nothing else.

Castiel’s face was cracked by a genuine smile. “Thanks, Sam.”

"You still shouldn’t have done it, though."

The keen blue eyes bore into him, willing him to understand, and maybe to forgive. “I’m old. I watched over this earth for longer than you can imagine.” He said it as if Sam could forget. Probably because sometimes he did. “And believe me, this is not the worst way to die. I can go out on my own terms, there are no strings attached, and you’ll have the rest of your years returned to you. It’s a fair trade-off. More than fair.”

Sam had expected a whole new load of crushing guilt from carrying another person’s life on his shoulders, but somehow this seemed different. Cas was utterly calm and unafraid, and unlike Dean before him he understood the full weight of his choice. Because it’d been a proper choice this time, not a half-crazed decision forced out of grief, and Cas had made it deliberately and level-headedly, and without an ounce of regret.

"… He… He was getting better, you know," Sam blurted out before he could stop himself. "You made him happy."

Castiel’s face fell. “Sam…” he breathed. It wasn’t a warning, but a plea.  _Please don’t do this. Please don’t say it._

"Look, you weren’t there to see what it was like after you walked into the reservoir, but it… he wasn’t ok. It was terrible. Now, it’s almost like he’s a different person. He dialed back his drinking to an almost reasonable amount. And last week he made a freaking casserole! I had no idea Dean knew what casseroles are. I’ve never seen him so… at peace."

Castiel did the tiny head shake thing again. “He’ll live without me. He can’t live without you. That’s all I know.”

Sam averted his eyes. He wondered if that still held true.

He wondered if it ever had.

"So how long until you get dragged to heaven for good?" he sighed. He rested his elbows on his thighs, dismayed by how casually he was capable of talking about this stuff. People really could get used to tragedy, even the loss of every last thing they cared about.

"I have however long it takes to say goodbye. Death was… he was very kind."

*****

_"Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare."_

_"It might not even work."_

_"You’re not doing this. It’s not up to you. He’s my responsibility, not yours. I should be the one…"_

_"I’m not going to let Sam die! He’s my best friend!"_

_“_ _Don’t leave me again. Not like this._ _I… for Christ’s sake, I need you_ here _. I can’t do it without you, Cas.”_

_"Of course you can. You broke the shackles of destiny itself. You have the power to do anything, absolutely anything in the world."_

_"I don’t want to! It’s not about destiny, ok? That stuff doesn’t mean shit if I lose either of you. All I want is for you to stay. Please, Cas. I’m begging you here. We’ll find some other way. I’m his big brother, maybe I’ll talk Death into taking me instead."_

_"You listen to me. No, listen to me!_ _You may not think highly of yourself, but_ _'Dean Winchester is saved' were the most important words I ever said. Possibly the most important words uttered in the history of creation.”_

_"Cas."_

_"I can’t force you to do anything, so I’m ASKING you. Don’t let the only truly good thing I’ve done go to waste. Please."_

_"You dumb son-of-a-bitch. You’ll actually go through with this."_

_"Yeah. Besides, if something happened to you, Sam would never forgive either of us._ _”_

_"But is it really what you want?"_

_"What I want is for Sam to live."_

*****

Castiel sat alone. His head was bowed.

"Sam Winchester is saved," he whispered to no one.

*****

Someone rapped against Baby’s window, but Dean didn’t open his eyes. He wished he’d cranked up some music. That way he could pretend not to hear the increasingly annoyed outcries of “Come on, you stupid jerk, open up.”

He swore and rolled down the window. “The hell do you want?” he growled.

"How long were you holed up in your car?" Sam asked accusingly. "You ignored my calls."

Dean started to roll the window back up, but Sam blocked it with his giant hand.

"He’s going to die, and you won’t even talk to him?" Sam sounded angry, angry at _Dean_ , as if _he_ were the one who’d made a huge mistake. 

"I’m buying him time."

"What?" 

"I’m buying him time!" Dean exploded. "Death gave him long enough to say goodbye. He hasn’t said goodbye to me."

_Oh_ , Sam’s big stupid face seemed to say. "Dean. Wow. That’s…" He trailed off.

If Sam started pitying him, he would deck the stupid asswipe in the face.

"That’s not a very well thought-out plan," his brother finished clumsily.

Dean scoffed. “I don’t want Cas to go. Sue me.” 

That was probably the understatement of the year right there. He’d expected this to happen eventually. Good things only came to him to be snatched away, and he’d lived with that certainty poisoning the corners of his mind for a long time, trying hard not to poke at it too closely. Now it was all over and he didn’t know what to do. It seemed like he’d spent half of his life trying to carry on as he mourned one loss after another. He honestly wasn’t sure he could do it again.

"What you’re doing is like sticking a band-aid on a werewolf bite," Sam sighed. "Death will spare Cas on a technicality? You really think so?"

As if Dean himself didn’t ruminate about the very same thing for the last few hours.

"Go away. Nobody asked you," he snapped.

"No!" And Sam was angry again, angry at the wrong person because lashing out at Dean was familiar, and because they both knew Sam’s life had been saved for Dean’s sake. "You can’t let Cas slip by. He wants to talk to you. He deserves at least that."

"Do you know how many goodbyes I already said to Cas? One more won’t do shit."

Sam banged his head against the roof of the car in irritation. Dean heard him mumble something like _why is he so stupid oh my god._

"Dean," Sam tried again, this time with his reasonable-grown-up voice. "I’m not saying that I would rather be dead. Neither am I saying that Cas made the right call. But… I just… I thought maybe… you two would figure it out, you know? After the crap you’ve been through, I was sort of expecting a different ending to the whole story. Still, he made a deal with one of the most powerful beings in existence, not some punk-ass demon, so there’s no way he can pop back up like usual. And I would’ve… I would’ve bawled like a big baby at your wedding, I really would’ve, ok? But this is the end of the line. This is fucking _it_ , Dean, this is your last chance, so quit being such a bitch and GO TALK TO HIM.”

Sam stomped off. Dean thought he saw him wiping his face with the back of his hand.

*****

_Dean printed a chicken casserole recipe off the internet and made a grocery run specifically for the ingredients._ _Castiel’s offer to help was greeted with a cheerful, “Sit your ass back down, buddy.”_ _He’d pulled out a dusty Dean Martin record from heaven knows which mysterious crevice the Men of Letters left it, made a couple of cracks about the similarity of their names, and soon the music pooled into the resonant space of the bunker, sweet and thick like a cascade of honey. He chimed in with his gravelly approximation of a croon, his shoulders swaying lightly to the rhythm as he diced chicken and chopped vegetables. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore! When the nananana something something something that’s amore!” He occasionally interrupted himself with a “fuck off, Sammy” when Sam complained about their chef’s singing abilities._

_And Castiel remembered grinding against the hordes of hell, remembered the tattered soul nestled inside his grace, remembered the lonely horror of falling and the atrocities he’d committed since then, and he could hardly believe the road drenched in blood had lead him here. Somewhere along the line, the sight of the Righteous Man humming tunelessly in front of a cutting board became enough to repay his sacrifices and to wash away his sins._

_Dean brushed off the stacks of police records and lore to lay down a steaming plate_ _in front of Castiel_ _. He grinned like a little boy, eye crinkles, laugh lines, and healing scars and all. “This’ll blow your tiny angel mind,” he promised._

_Sam smiled a private smile at Castiel around a mouthful of spinach and cheese. He smiled back._

_They talked about a possible vampire nest in North Dakota while they dug into the delicious meal, and Castiel wished things could always be so easy._ _Dean Martin sang about love in the background._

_*****_

After almost one more hour of working up his courage, Dean finally made his way to the bottom of the bunker’s staircase. His entire chest felt as if it were a swirling mass of dread.

And Cas was seated at the table, staring at him for the last time, waiting.

"For fuck’s sake, were you _actually_ gonna spend your last night on earth sitting quietly?” Dean heard himself speak. Out of all the words he meant to say, he couldn’t believe those were the ones that came out.

And yet Cas beamed up at him as if he understood.

Dizzy, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that the room was already empty. Cas was already a corpse.

"Dean, I’m sorry," Castiel began.

_Don’t say that, not that._ Clear as day, Dean saw his new God, face covered with blisters, blood staining his trenchcoat, looking back at him with the weight of a million monstrous souls in his eyes. “ _I’m sorry Dean._ ” _  
_

Dean thought he could hear something snap inside him. 

"You always say you’re sorry," Dean interrupted ferociously. 

In the car, with his head resting against the steering wheel, he’d promised himself not to be an asshole. He didn’t want their last moments to be bitter like that again. But he felt cornered and terrified, and old habits die hard. “You’re always so goddamn sorry, as if it changes anything.”

Castiel frowned and pressed his mouth into a thin line. Apparently the angel - _he’s human dammit, he’s going to die and you STILL haven’t stopped calling him an angel? -_ had made himself a similar promise, and obviously he was better at keeping it too.

"I’m sorry you’re hurt," Castiel managed to bite out calmly. "However, I will not apologize for Sam being alive."

"I told you not to do it, I _begged_ you. We could’ve found another way. But you’re just so damn stubborn, aren’t you?”

His voice sounded too much like a sob, and at that moment he preferred being a complete bastard than being weak.

"Yes, we both knew there was another way. It was to let Sam die," Cas stiffly addressed to a patch of the floor.

"Dude, if you’re telling me to pick between you and Sam…"

"No, no. It was my choice, not yours," he said with distress, his stolid mask completely slipping at last, as if this was the one thing he needed to get through Dean’s thick skull before he died. "You have nothing to feel guilty about. None of it is on you."

Basically Cas decided to step in before Dean had the opportunity to do something even stupider. The guy knew him too well.

"I’m sorry too," Dean admitted. He stood in front of the table, unsure. He felt like he was pinned to the floor by the sorrow on Castiel’s face. "I’m sorry for… for everything. All the stuff I didn’t say. Everything I should’ve done."  _I’m sorry you thought it was your responsibility to sacrifice yourself for Sam, or anyone else. I’m sorry the home I tried to make for us wasn’t enough to let me keep you. I’m sorry I dragged you down into this whole mess. If I’d known you back then the way I do now, I would’ve left your stupid angel ass with your faith and your power and your oblivious radiance._ _You deserve all the good things and you got stuck with me instead._

_I don’t know how to properly love someone. No one ever taught me either. I’m so sorry._

"We were alright for a while there, huh? We were pretty good." Dean whispered.

"We were."

He licked his lips once. Twice. “I don’t want you to die.” He sounded as pathetic as a freaking child. He felt like one too. Suddenly he was four years old, Sammy slept and dad was gone, and a voice in his own head wouldn’t stop screaming, “ _Why is mommy dead? Why is she dead? Why why why_ …”

" You’ll be fine. You and Sam will keep doing what you’ve always done. Be strong." Castiel said it as if it were a command. Maybe he needed something to believe in too. Something to look forward to. Otherwise, what was the point of saving Sam?

Dean shook his head. “Nah, man. This… I mean, I’ve tried before, to… to move on. But you… This is it. This was my one shot at… I don’t know. I just need… I wish…”

Castiel stood up. Dean instinctively stepped back from Cas’ outstretched hand. He didn’t know whether from fear or hope.

The fingers curled under Dean’s jaw, a thumb caressing his chin, his lips. Castiel rested his temple against Dean’s cheek. It felt warm and just a little sticky with salty tears. Suddenly Castiel’s mouth brushed against his, light and warm, simple like a sigh. It’d been so many years coming and it felt like too much, way too much to pile onto his mountain of sorrows, the straw that finally broke Dean Winchester’s back.

Just as soon the lips were gone, the same lips he’d spent his nights dreaming of. And then it _wasn’t enough_ to get so little at the end. Not nearly enough.

And Dean blindly gripped the nape of his neck, digged his fingers into his hair, “I can’t let you go. I _can’t._  I thought maybe I could but this is too much even for me, Cas. I’ve already lost everything…” He pressed his forehead against Castiel’s gently, so carefully, he wanted nothing more than to smash himself into pieces but there was no way he would hurt _him_ , not anymore, not now. He vaguely felt Cas’ hands tugging at the fabric on his chest, pulling him closer, his entire vision swallowed by those damn eyes and his own pain mirrored inside them.

"Wait for me," he heard himself say with certainty, as if he knew himself worthy of the patience of an angel. 

"Oh, Dean," Castiel breathed. "Heaven’s in shambles. I’m not sure if a reunion is possible. Try to meet someone else instead, someone better." Their faces were so close that he felt the errant brush of their lips rather than heard the words, felt the exhaustion, felt the sadness down to the very marrow of Cas’ human soul. 

He almost laughed. Someone better? Where in earth and heaven would he possibly find that? Sure, find someone else to pull him out of the hell he’d trapped himself in, that sounds easy. Find someone else to cling to in the chaos of this shithole world. Find someone else who was exactly as flawed and broken as Dean, and still oddly perfect somehow.  

"I think that ship’s sailed a long time ago. It was only you for… oh Jesus, for years. So many wasted years."

Cas rested his hand on top of Dean’s. It was dry. Dean’s hand wasn’t. Their fingers intertwined against Cas’ neck. “Those were the best years, Dean. They weren’t a waste.”

"I’ll come find you," Dean stammered out. "We butchered our way through purgatory, you think heaven will stop us? Just… don’t forget me, Cas."  _Please wait for me? Please want me? Please remember me, please hold onto me the way I’ll wear you in my heart for the rest of my life, please…_

"I could never. Never in the entire course of eternity could I forget you. Don’t be so goddamn stupid." Dean saw a tiny glimmer of annoyance. The barest edge of a smirk. 

He crushed Cas against him, clumsy, sloppy, but relieved. He buried his nose into the crook of his shoulder. The shivers along his spine were warmed with triumph, just enough to make the pain bearable. They still had each other, right? They still were the same damn stubborn people, and there was some fight left in Cas too.

They would just have to kick death’s ass. After all they’d fought against worse before, and they’d won.

"Make it comfy up there, yeah? For when I come home?" His voice was muffled against the collar of Castiel’s Winchester-plaid shirt. 

"I will."

Dean disentangled himself from Cas. The blue eyes were grave, and wet, and fuck, Dean never saw him cry before. It was another first here, at the end of all things.

"I’ll wait for you. I’ll come to you bearing pie."

Dean laughed wetly. “Aw, you’re almost making me look forward to dying.”

Dean noticed Death from the corner of his eyes, and wondered how long he’d been waiting. Maybe he’d quietly stood there the whole time, giving them a chance to deal.

Cas took a deep breath. His eyes were red, but he looked as ready as he was ever gonna get.

"Goodbye, Dean Winchester." 

"See you, Cas."

*****

_"I like it here, Dean."_

_"What?"_

_"Here. On earth. With you guys."_

_"Well, we can show you a hell of a time if you enjoy motel rooms and stinky car rides with Sammy the gas machine."_

_"I understand why Arwen decided not to leave Middle Earth. I would’ve made the same choice."_

_"What, you mean heaven?"_

_"Heaven is… rigid. Controlled. But down here, everything is freedom and creation. You, we, we m_ _ake our own stories. And from an outsider’s… an angel’s point of view, the uncertainty seems like a bane. But it’s actually a possibility. Just, infinite potential. There’s such beauty in it, Dean. In being suspended at the edge of things.”_

_"You got that from a Lord of the Rings marathon?"_

_"I’m a bit smashed."_

_"More than a bit. You gotta learn to pace yourself."_

_"Going to heaven isn’t the reward. Life is the reward. It’s the part that really matters. The only part. Beauty in our every choice, however briefly."_

_"All right, I think it’s time for you to sleep it off, buddy."_

_"I… I don’t want to die."_

_"Jesus Christ! Where’d that come from?"_

_"I like being here, Dean. For most of my existence I’ve been ready to die for my causes. My father. Humanity. I don’t want to die now."_

_"You do kind of die a lot."_

_"Yeah."_

_"You’re allowed to want things for yourself, you know. Humans are entitled to a little selfishness. S’one of the only perks."_

_"I want to stay for… I want to be with you. Just like this."_

_"Ok. I mean… I… Ok. I want you to stay too. It’s… it’s nice with you here."_

*****

Castiel deserved a proper hunter’s funeral, especially since he’d actually left a body behind this time around. The flames soared high while Dean thought of beautiful suspended edges and years that weren’t wasted. Castiel’s ashes were dispersed on an endless Kansas road in late August. The evening wind rustled through the golden wheat as Castiel scattered amongst the tiny pinpricks of newborn stars. Right then, with his face upturned towards the heavens, Dean didn’t cry. He would later shed a few tears behind the wheel, but only because the car seemed so goddamn empty now. 

Castiel wasn’t born with a last name, so the name on his fake birth certificate ended up being “Castiel Winchester”. Dean had the same thing carved on the plain granite tombstone Sam insisted on procuring. Dean was no good with words, never had been, and he silently hoped Cas would see the message and understand. Sam approved. 

Cas drank coffee in the mornings, and tea in the afternoons. He adored water, juice, beer, whiskey, milk, and every other beverage in between. Once they were taking care of a sudden leviathan uprising in Alabama, and Cas insisted on stopping the entire show to visit a lemonade stand. He gravelly told the kid manning the stand that her lemonade was very good, and gave her a dollar instead of a quarter. Dean laughed at him, going for mocking and not quite getting there, and Cas took it so easily it almost seemed as if he actually wanted everything Dean had to give.

He never truly understood why riding shotgun was so desirable to humans, but he fought fiercely for the privilege on principle. Eventually Sam and him developed an elaborate post-hunt scoring card that measured body count, difficulty, and coolness of the kills, with Dean presiding as the easily bribed ‘shotgun judge’. 

He was not accepted by the other hunters right away. Most of them knew him only as Sam and Dean’s weird fallen angel, and he was treated with the same suspicion any supernatural creature deserved. However, more than once Dean walked in on Castiel sitting in the middle of a semi-circle of amazed faces, all enraptured by his tales of the dawn of the dinosaurs and the Garden of Eden and the crucifixion of the Messiah. Even the most grizzled hunters, the most cynical atheists, and Dean and Sam themselves were taken in by the low, ancient voice and its matter-of-fact retellings of a younger world.

He was absolutely terrifying with a blade, angel grace or no. The monsters spread hushed rumours of the Hunter Angel or the Angel of Death, and he was spoken of with the same bile as the name Winchester. Many of the pockets of hunters that distrusted him were tided over by the enormous goldmine of spells and wards he provided, revolutionizing the North American hunting community as a whole. He was pretty shit with guns, though.

He helped Dean cook sometimes. The directions he received were usually simple things like “pass me a plate” or “stir this”. When Dean felt particularly daring, he would bump his hip against the angel’s -  _former angel’s_ \- body, or graze him with his elbow, or quickly brush fingers against his sides, and then blame it all on the confined space. More than at any other time Dean was aware of the exhausting, almost magnetic pull towards… well, towards everything Castiel was. He blamed the steam, the scalding oil, or the heat from the Men of Letters’ enormous oven. It seemed to give Cas an almost glow, compounded by the inevitable smile on his face and the beads of sweat pearling on his neck. Whenever Dean offered to teach him how to cook proper, he always refused politely, and Dean tried not to read too much into it.

He devoted a lot of his free time to cleaning out the Batcave’s archives with a filing system he’d developed in association with Sam. Because he was permanently sidetracked into reading one interesting book after another instead of filing them away, progress was fairly slow. He amassed an impressive collection of post-it notes, yellow and pink squares sticking out of century old volumes, filled with Castiel’s commentary and memories in his elegant handwriting. Eventually he stopped using them purely to annotate books and left little messages around the bunker when he felt passive aggressive.

He picked up the habit of licking his fingers before turning pages. It drove Dean mad. Dean wanted to smell the dust and knowledge and time on those hands. He wanted to hold them, to feel them warm against his face, to taste the pulse. Instead he poured boiling water over teabag after teabag, and watched those hands cradle the mugs instead.

He enjoyed doing the laundry. Unlike Sam, he didn’t forget the pie. Alcohol made him very happy and philosophical. His favourite movie was freaking Wall-E. He never started his own journal after all, though he’d kicked the idea around for months.

He had soft lips that tasted like tears. Dean couldn’t say if they were Cas’ tears or his own.

He was happy for a while. Dean hoped he knew how much he’d been loved.

He died to save Sam. Maybe he died to save Dean.

He died of his own free will.

Dean met him in hell and loved him on earth. And someday, he knew, he would find him again in heaven.

Someday.

But for now, Dean would live.


	2. Epilogue

_For AJ._

*****

At four forty-nine in the morning, Sam padded towards the kitchen, his bare feet freezing against the hardwood floor, fuming at the sliver of lamp-light underneath the gap of the door. He pulled it open with a lot more anger than necessary.

"I knew it," he accused. His piece of shit brother sat hunched over at the kitchen table. "Did you stay awake all night?"

"None of your business."

Sam rested his head against the doorjamb while a momentary wave of fatigue washed over him. Of course Dean wasn’t in bed. Of course he was hiding in what used to be Cas’ favourite spot in the bunker. “What are you doing up?” he asked more gently.

"Nothin’." Dean slammed the pages of something shut and began to gather up the pile of books and post-its that were amassed in front of him.

"I miss him too," Sam sighed. He kept the exhausted irritation out of his voice as he strode towards Dean’s seat. "Doesn’t mean we should stop sleeping."

"Fuck off," Dean growled back in warning.

Dean Winchester, always so eloquent.

Whenever he was reminded of Cas in any way, Dean increasingly reacted like a wounded animal mauling everything and everyone within his reach. It became most obvious that he was handling it exceptionally bad about a week ago, after he smashed the electric kettle against the wall. It ended up laying sadly on the kitchen floor, a bit dented but still in decent working condition. Quietly, Sam had decided to hide it out of sight, nestled safely in a closet full of dead guy coats. He hadn’t the heart to throw it away.

It was understandable and absolutely draining to be around.

Sam snatched two of the post-its at random, and held them above his head until Dean gave up and slumped back down. In Castiel’s narrow and tidy handwriting, he read,  _While cupids technically fall under the category of cherubim, the author appears to wrongly use the titles interchangeably._

The other one said,  _CHRISTMAS GIFTS. Dean: ~~Car pillows~~ ,  ~~pie~~ ,  ~~waffle iron~~ , something meaningful and good and deserving of him, Ask Sam for ideas? Sam: a kindle or other portable electronic device._

Suddenly he felt the loss of Cas more deeply than words could say.

"He was gonna buy me a tablet for Christmas," Sam whispered. He’d often whined about Charlie’s cool gadgets. Dean rolled his eyes and told him to get over it princess, but Cas, of course, actually paid attention.

Memories of their last Christmas rushed into his mind, unbidden. Dean, without a word to anybody, had plopped a lumpy, clumsily wrapped package on Castiel’s lap. It was a tan trenchcoat. It still had the damn tags on it, and smelled of new unwashed fabric. The awe on Cas’ face made Sam feel like a giant voyeuristic third wheel.

And it wasn’t fair to pretend Cas was a simple hurdle to pull Dean through, even though it was much, much easier. His own grief necessarily had to be pushed into a neglected corner. If he showed weakness then Dean would start worrying about Sam’s well-being too, and then where would they be?

"Sam." Dean’s voice made a valiant effort at staying steady. "How do you think he’s doing up there?" 

And Sam was struck by how  _still_ he was. He belatedly noticed how much Dean’d been busying his hands lately, his mind, how much he’d fidgeted and fought to fill the void with pointless action. He couldn’t go for more than a few hours without finding a supernatural piece of crap to stab in the face. He couldn’t go for more than a few minutes without changing the channel on the radio. He couldn’t go for more than a few seconds without grabbing an object, preferably a sharp one, to twiddle with nervously. Two hours after arriving in Lebanon the previous night, he’d dragged Sam out of bed with a possible wraith in Nebraska, fully prepared to drive all night, and Sam was forced to plead and yell and bribe until the idiot agreed to ease off until morning.

Now he stared at the ceiling like he was carved out of stone. It was scary.

"He’s a tough dude, I’m sure he’ll be fine," Sam lied. "Maybe by now he’s found Bobby and they’re drinking whiskey on Karen’s porch."

"That sounds nice."

They fell back into silence.

As far as he could tell, Dean wasn’t actively trying to wreck himself. Sam kept expecting empty bottles, or dumb kamikaze attempts, or something that would let him gauge Dean’s mental state. The weirdest was probably the silence. He didn’t talk. He also didn’t sleep. He completely stopped drinking. He faced the job with tired determination. He hated everything. Dean sometimes had random outbursts of violence against inanimate objects and then pretended nothing happened. But Sam was accustomed to his brother burying his grief under alcohol and sex and an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. It would be awful in its own way if he could point to the usual signs of alcoholism or suicidal recklessness, yet it would at least be a concrete problem to work with.

Whatever the hell  _this_  was, he’d never encountered anything like it before. 

He was starting to feel like he was missing something big, something really bad.

He clumsily joined Dean on one of the awkward stools, and as usual wished the Men of Letters had sprung for some normal chairs. His big brother went on staring upwards. “Hey. Are you gonna be alright? Really.”

A long time ago he’d learned to stop expecting Dean to give honest answers when prompted, and so he was completely thrown off when Dean replied, “No. I don’t think so.” He sounded like he couldn’t feel a damn thing.

And what was Sam supposed to say to that?

At a loss for what to do, he picked up another post-it note.  _This cake is for Sam’s BIRTHDAY TOMORROW. If you touch it I will unleash my heavenly wrath on your butt._

Sam stifled a chuckle. “I can’t believe Cas kept all of these notes,” he mused, staring at the impressive pile of multi-coloured pieces of paper on the table.

"He didn’t."

"Wow… Dude, you’re a giant sap."

"Shut up."

Sam laughed outright then. He couldn’t help it. For a second everything felt too utterly normal.

And Dean, the beginning of tears glistening in his eyes, let a small smile bloom on his lips. It crinkled his eyes and softened his worry-lines, like some kind of a minor miracle.

"Jesus, I miss Cas too. I miss him so much," Sam chuckled. Really, why did Castiel need to be completely synonymous with pain? There were too many good memories. 

When he looked over, Dean’s smile had disappeared.

Right. That was why.

Sam steeled himself. By tomorrow Dean would probably clamp down again, and he wanted to get stuff off his chest first. “Alright, listen to me. When Jess died… When she died I didn’t sleep either. I saw her burning on the ceiling every time I closed my eyes. I threw myself into hunting to stop thinking of her. I didn’t believe I would ever be ok.” Jess was like an old war wound, dull and deep, and that he’d long ago learned to ignore until the pain resurfaced sharply on damp nights. Jess left notes too. Jess liked to bake him treats while he was out and leave them on the counter for him. When he met her the first time she wore a yellow summer dress. Her yellow hair on her yellow dress, it struck him. Sometimes on Saturdays they would find a park and a tree and a patch of grass just for the two of them to stretch their lazy legs, and they would sneak in lukewarm beer and boxed white wine inside coffee mugs. He’d kiss the mole on her forehead between slicing tomatoes with a pocketknife to make soggy sandwiches. There were so many things about her that he’d forgotten, so many details that were discoloured and chipped, but sitting at the kitchen table holding an orange post-it note from a dead angel, he remembered.

Dean’s version of the tale had less yellow dresses and more hellish torment, but at the end of the day nobody deserved to lose their Jessica. 

"I know how much you’re hurting right now," Sam went on, and wasn’t it strange that they’d never properly talked about Jess before? "I’m not gonna pretend that I can give you advice on how to deal with losing the love of your life, because there isn’t really any except… well, time. If what you need to do is chuck shit against the wall and mope in the kitchen at the ass-crack of dawn, I can respect that. All I ask is that you don’t do something stupid. I need you to let me know if you’re really messed up… If you’re thinking about…"

"He kissed me," Dean whispered.

"What?"

_What?_

"Right before he died. He kissed me."

_Holy crap._

Dean’s eyes didn’t stray from the ceiling. His face looked impossibly blank.

Well, fuck.

For a terrifying moment, Sam wondered if he’d been wrong about everything. Maybe Cas’ feelings were one-sided after all. Maybe all the signs he thought he saw were in his head. Maybe he’d pushed Cas into spilling his emotions, and Dean rejected him, and then Cas had gone to the grave with the knowledge that the dumb schmuck he gave everything for didn’t reciprocate his feelings. It was one thing for Sam to roll his eyes and internally pray for them to get a room, and a completely different thing for Dean to deal with all the weight of their complicated history head-on.

Oh Christ, maybe this was why he was acting so out of character.

"Do you… I thought… Oh my God." Shit shit shit shit.

Shit shit shit.

Then he took another look at his face, and… no. No, Dean was in love.

He was sure.

A tear rolled down Dean’s cheek that he didn’t bother to hide, perhaps from sheer exhaustion. “I was a dick. I yelled at him,” he said, his tone flat and resigned. “But he was so… And then he kissed me. I’m such a fucking coward.” He hung his head and buried his hands in his hair until his knuckles were corded and white, his eyes tired and drawn and old. It hadn’t occurred to Sam that his brother was even capable of being anything other than eternally young and handsome.

"So Castiel loved you," Sam breathed, momentarily dazed into stupidity.

Dean’s face scrunched up into an ugly grimace. “…Yes,” he said after a long pause. For a while it seemed like he was about to start weeping with abandon, but he kept himself together with truly inhuman effort.

When Sam used to imagine this moment, he’d pictured Cas telling him with lowered eyelashes and shy smiles, hiding his happiness in a cup of whatever cheap tea was left on the shelves. He’d imagined Dean embarrassed and sweaty and terrified, and the huge grin of relief he’d wear after Sam opened some congratulatory beers. He would’ve called Charlie immediately and laughed at her exuberant shrieks of celebration. He would’ve driven to Sioux Falls and walked around the old salvage yard and sat on the overgrown grave and told Bobby about how those two dumb kids had finally figured it out, and they were gonna be alright, maybe not forever but for now, and he would’ve cried just a little.

He didn’t know why he’d expected a happy ending. Rookie mistake.

"Did you love him back?" he asked, even though he knew.

The silence dragged on uncomfortably.

"I hate it when you talk about him in past tense," Dean murmured long after Sam stopped expecting an answer. His voice was low but rock-steady.

And Sam would never call his brother a coward. But there were things, such small things, that he simply wasn’t brave enough to do even now.

"Nobody is forcing you to bounce back right away," Sam conceded mercifully. "You’re allowed to hurt."

"I’m tired. I’ve never stopped hurting."

Sam nodded in understanding. Like most things it took time to fix, empty words could only help so much. The only way to get through it was to take it one step at a time, one day at a time, or until another apocalypse distracted them. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. Where did you say the wraith was? Nebraska? Why don’t we try to catch a few hours of shut eye, huh?” He stretched and yawned for effect.

"No." Dean’s hands clamped down the edge of the table as if he expected to be physically dragged away. "I don’t want to sleep. I get these… weird dreams."

Sam smirked wryly. “Believe me, I can relate. But if you don’t sleep, you might wind up in an institution. That’s not fun.”

Dean’s body relaxed a bit, like he just gave up. No, like he  _let go_. “They’re not nightmares.” He carefully slotted his fingers together as if in prayer. “I dream about dying. Heaven.”

He said the last word with such softness, tenderness, and the wistful glint in his eye that he reserved for memories of Mary.

It was one of the least reassuring things Sam had ever heard, and Sam had once heard him say that they should let the entire world off itself. “Dean, I swear to God, if I find you on the floor with a bullet in your skull I will bring you back just to kick your ass!” he shouted, panic seeping into him like blood-soaked flannel.

Dean had the gall to roll his eyes. “Dude, calm down. I’m not suicidal. I have you. And Cas was right, this is… This… All of this… I mean, look at me, I kept all of these stupid post-it notes. Cas loved life, and I can’t… I won’tthrow it away. I owe him at least that. We’re not given long, and I ain’t about to waste what little I got by checking out early.”

Sam let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d held.

Wherever Castiel was, happy or miserable, safe or in incredible danger, Sam was grateful. So, so grateful. And not only for saving them both one last time, but for forcing Dean to see that his life was worth something. It took over a hundred deaths, losing everyone they ever cared about, the end of the world, the end of the world again, and the eternal love of an angelic man, but Dean finally, finally,  _finally_  wanted to live.

Sam cleared his throat. He ignored the tears prickling his eyelids.  _Dean wants to live_  echoed in his ears, and he hadn’t realized until right then that he’d been waiting - hoping almost his entire life to hear it.

"Do you – ahem. Do you want me to stay up? I’ll, um. I’ll fix us breakfast. We can finish season three of Game of Thrones." He obviously sounded choked up. He didn’t care.

"No, I’ll be fine," were the words that came out of Dean’s mouth. Everything else about him screamed  _please don’t leave me, I don’t want to be alone_.

"I’m making us food and that’s final. You sit there and rest." He clapped Dean on the shoulder as if everything was fine. "Oh, look, we have eggs!" He waved the carton triumphantly in Dean’s direction but Dean didn’t look. Sam took stock of the rest of the fridge. Ketchup, expired creamer, a tub of margarine, and half a pack of carrots. Well, ok then. His options were pretty limited.

One by one, Sam carefully cracked the eggs into a pan.

Back when they were young and stupider, Dean shouldered the difficult responsibility of filling their bowls with whatever microwavable canned crap he could buy from gas stations. As they both grew older he’d prepare actual meals when they had access to a stove. Macaroni and cheese, hamburger helper, the kind of cheap greasy stuff he could easily get his hands on while dad snored into a stained motel mattress, nursing a hangover. Dad’s cooking edged on the side of inedible, so that was probably for the best. Honestly, Sam may have turned to a healthy diet just because of all the terrible stuff he ate all the way until he ran off to college.

Sam stuffed slices of bread in the toaster.

The bunker kitchen was Dean and Castiel’s realm. Not that Sam didn’t feel at home in the room after the hundreds of hours of archiving and research he’d ended up gathering on those ridiculous little stools, but the table was legitimately Cas’ favourite spot in the world. He spent most of his downtime here perusing old texts and discreetly staring at Dean. Sometimes Sam caught glimpses of their awkward little cooking dances, of Dean’s fleeting nudges on Castiel’s back and sides and shoulders and hips, and of Dean’s goofy smiles as he bossed Cas around. “Pass me the tomatoes, buddy.” “D’you remember where we put the big pot? No, not that one, the huge one with the, uh, handles?” Those moments in particular made Sam daydream about smooshing their faces together to end their ridiculous eye-fucking for good. But Dean Winchester could never be that simple.

Sam flipped the eggs. He only broke one of the yellows. Mmm, three over easy and one scrambled, that wasn’t too bad of a run considering his so-so skills as a chef.

His feet were getting cold.

Other times Cas sat in the library instead, his forehead lined in concentration, clearly trying to mind his own business. Then Dean invariably swooped in and bothered the poor man because Dean was a clingy son of a bitch at heart. Nosy too. Once in a while Cas shooed him away, “ _If you won’t help us find a way to kill the knights of hell then the least you can do is let me research in peace,_ ” but most of the time he greeted the interruptions with a smile.

How often did Dean stand at this stove? How often did Castiel sit in Dean’s current spot at the table? Maybe this was why Dean had such a hard time even looking at Sam right now.

"Hey?" Dean chimed in so quietly he could barely be heard over the sizzle of the oil. "I meant to ask you, what did you do with the old kettle? I can’t find it anymore."

Sam guiltily remembered the appliance gathering dust at the bottom of a dark wardrobe. “Um, I kind of hid it,” he admitted.

"You hid it?”

"It made sense to me at the time!" Sam explained weakly.

The eggs were flopped onto plates. They were joined with almost an entire bag worth of toasted bread. He pushed off Dean’s pile of paper and books as best he could to make room for the food.

"I’ll go fetch your kettle. Here, go ahead, tuck in."

“Thank you,” Dean addressed to his lap rather than Sam’s face. “Really.”

Sam waved the empty coffee can at Dean. “Oh, and we’re out of coffee.” Dean still wasn’t looking in his direction and he felt kind of silly doing it. “I can do a supply run later. How about some green tea for now? It’s the only caffeine left in the bunker.”

Dean kept his eyes on the piece of toast in his hand. “Sure,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

The first two closets that Sam searched did not contain a dented kettle because the bunker was huge and apparently Sam’s memory was spotty about the actually useful things.

In the cluttered sink, he rinsed the crumminess off the dull metal before filling it and plugging it in. The familiar low hum of boiling water soon filled the silence. It reminded him of summer afternoons in the Impala with the windows rolled down, the same old classic rock songs blaring at an ear-splitting level. It reminded him of rainy evenings in Bobby’s house. It reminded him of Amelia’s dark head huddled comfortably against his side.

This really was the morning for nostalgia.

He plopped a fresh mug of tea next to the plate. “Here ya go.”

Dean contemplated the steaming beverage as if he’d forgotten how to drink.

Sam had seen this tableau more times than he could count, with the strong plaid-covered back, the hunched posture, the books covering the table, the lone cup sticking out of a smattering of notes. It was almost possible to ignore that the hair colour was too light or the hands looked older. It was almost possible to forget that the man who usually sat there was dead.

Something sad twisted in Sam’s chest, but he’d grown accustomed to the feeling a long time ago.

“Eat your eggs,” Sam commanded as he scanned the shelves for the marmalade jar.

Dean slowly, almost tenderly curled his fingers around the hot cup.

First it was the huge, hiccuping gulp of air that shook his shoulders. It made Sam stare up at him perplexedly, not recognizing the sound at first. Then the hand shot up to cover his mouth, maybe to keep it all in. Then the sniffing started. And then he was  _sobbing_. Just… just bawling his eyes out. Dean didn’t sob, right? Dean allowed himself a tear or two before burying everything and ruthlessly moving on. He didn’t let himself cry with abandon like this, he didn’t let the sobs wrack his body like tidal waves hitting a shore, he didn’t curl himself around a stupid cup of tea like it was the most precious thing in the world, he didn’t, he never did.

Dean’s grip on the cup shook violently. Scalding liquid splashed all over his hand.

Sam rushed over. “Dean! Let go. Let it  _go_ _._  You’re hurting yourself! Stop it!” He pried Dean’s fingers off the mug with difficulty.

The burned, still steaming hand buried itself in the folds of Sam’s t-shirt instead.

Dean cried against his little brother’s shoulder and the tears seeped through the fabric onto skin.

“Dean? Jesus.”

“Why did it have to be him?” he raged wetly. “Always, always… I couldn’t make him stay. He wouldn’t… he wasn’t listening to me, he never listens… I couldn’t save you both. I can never…” All those weeks of repression were finally cracking his hardened walls.

“Hey, hey now. Cas was human. Free will sucks that way.”

"Sammy, he knows now. He… He knows. He…" Dean sputtered in between wet, laboured breaths. Even through the layer of tears, it sounded like a confession.

"What, Dean? He knows what?" Awkwardly, Sam patted his big brother’s back the same way he would a small child.

"He knows. I finally… I… He knows.  _He knows_. He’s… He still exists, he’s so fucking close and he’s too far, he’s just… just barely out of my reach but heknows. It’s all I got to keep me… to keep me going. Thank you, whoever’s out there.  _Thank you_  for letting me have this. Thank you. And… I told him. Sammy, he knows. All those stupid fucking years weren’t wasted. Out of all the… all the assholes in the world I’m the least deserving, but I… I told him. Right now, he’s somewhere in heaven and he loves… And he knows that… he knows I… he’s… he’s waiting for me.”

“You did tell him how you felt, then. You stupid jerk, you did.” Sam laughed through the fierce surge of pride he felt for his brother. He wasn’t certain why it changed a damned thing, but it did, it changed absolutely all of it.

No, Dean Winchester was not a coward.

“I asked him… to wait for me,” Dean gasped through the ugly sobs. “ He’s waiting for me. What if I never see him again? What if I can’t find him…”

“You will. I waited this long for you morons to get your shit together. I’m a freaking saint. My patience deserves to be rewarded, alright?” Maybe Sam was crying a tiny little bit too, but that was okay. That was good.

Obviously they were gonna find each other again. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind. Yeah, nothing ever went right for any of them, but that didn’t mean anything in this world or the next could keep them apart forever. It never had. Even if Dean somehow winded up downstairs, which would be awful and underserved and Sam didn’t even want to think about that possibility, he and Cas would fly down and bust him out somehow. Either that or his big brother would claw through the fabric of the universe all the way to the pearly gates using nothing but blunt nails and ballsiness. This wasDean Winchester and Castiel. And damn it all, they deserved to be selfish for once.

“You’ll have an awesome life, and Cas will be so proud of you. He’ll be so grateful. You’ll see,” Sam promised.

“Thank you, Sammy. Thank you. Thank you…”

Sam would never find out exactly how long he waited for Dean’s breathing to calm. When he finally noticed that Dean had fallen asleep with his face squished against his shoulder, the tea had gone cold.

For the first time in God only knew many days, Dean’s face looked devoid of pain. He looked at peace.

Sam couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen his brother asleep. Ever since they’d lost Castiel, Dean stayed up when Sam dozed off, and his restless puttering persisted when morning came. He was probably afraid of stopping in case his own mind started to fill the gaping hole in his being. But nothing could stay in perpetual motion, not even grief. Maybe, at long last, Dean had allowed himself to rest and to heal.

And maybe he dreamed.

*****

_"Cas? Is that really you?"_

_"Hello, Dean."_


End file.
